


i'll be right here (wishing the flowers were from you)

by tigerlilycorinne



Series: AUgust 2020 Short Fic [27]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Blaise is Pining so hard, Confessions, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Self-Indulgent, but only barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerlilycorinne/pseuds/tigerlilycorinne
Summary: Neville is sure Mrs Zabini wanted the Christmas wreath he's making in two weeks. Thankfully, he's right; Blaise isn't here to pick up the wreath, he's here to... watch Neville make it? Drive Neville insane?Probably yes, because Blaise isn't single, even though he won't stop flirting with Neville. In fact, it almost seems like he's trying to remind Neville just how not-single he is. Neville's going to need a lot of roses... for Blaise's boyfriends.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Blaise Zabini
Series: AUgust 2020 Short Fic [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856617
Comments: 7
Kudos: 110
Collections: AUgust 2020





	i'll be right here (wishing the flowers were from you)

**Author's Note:**

> I wish more people wrote Bleville, but you know what they say. Be the change you want to see in the world, right?
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "Superman".

_Briiing!_

“Be with you in a minute!”

Neville tucks the last of the thin pine clippings into the wreath he has put together, threading them into the wire. He enjoys making wreaths as much as he enjoys putting together bouquets, but it’s always nice to be able to do a wreath simply because he gets so many more orders for bouquets than he does wreaths. 

Usually.

It’s Christmas season now, and with it comes a wave of Christmas-y commissions.

His hands are a little bit sticky from the sap, and a pine needle, still green, sticks to his pointer finger, but he can’t get it off without getting it stuck to another finger. He decides to leave it– he doesn’t want to keep a customer waiting– and looks up from the counter quickly.

There’s a man watching him, his mouth tipped up in amusement, and Neville recognises him right away– his close-cut hair, his arrogant posture, the way he dresses, all his clothing clinging to his lean frame. “Blaise?”

“Hello, Longbottom.” Blaise leans against the counter, his movements smooth and sure. Neville feels more awkward than ever with Blaise watching him, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck and then stops, because he’s got sap on his fingertips. 

Blaise’s smirk widens. He _knows_ how good he looks, with a jawline that could slice you open and his full lips just parted– he always knew how good he looked, even in school, and Neville had never felt more plain than when he was in Blaise Zabini’s presence. 

“You’re here for your mother’s Christmas wreath?” It happens to be the one Neville’s working on, and Neville’s stomach flutters anxiously– wasn’t he told the week after next week? He was sure Mrs. Zabini had asked him to have it ready in two weeks. He looks up at Blaise, after trying to get the needle off of his finger again. “Did she want it by today?”

“It’s our wreath,” Blaise says, looking at the wreath on Neville’s counter, “I still live with her.” He grins. “Pretty inconvenient for a shag, though. I have to go to the bloke’s place. Pain in the arse.”

Neville smiles awkwardly, his stomach going warm and his heart stuttering in his chest. What is one even supposed to say in response to something like that? He brushes the needle against his sweater, but it refuses to come off.

“I think…” He sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets so he’ll stop fiddling with it before Blaise outright laughs at him– it looks as if he’s about to. “I think she said in two weeks, but I could be wrong.”

Blaise snickers. “Calm down. I’m only here to see how it’s coming along. She didn’t mention it was _you_ in the shop. I found out from the gardener. He says you’re quite a name in the botanical communities.”

“Oh.” 

Neville feels blood rise to his cheeks and he looks quickly down at the wreath he’s been putting together– it looks dull right now, only green and a couple small pinecones, but the structure of it and the body– the branches– are the bulk of the work, and he’s gotten that done. Still, holding it out feels strange, because to anyone who doesn’t make wreaths, it’ll look like nothing at all. He holds it out anyway, hoping to get Blaise to stop looking at him before he turns as red as the berries he’s going to put on next. 

“This one is yours, actually. It’s– well, it’s not much to look at right now, really. But this is how it’s coming along.” He sounds so painfully dull next to Blaise, who’s voice is bored and yet somehow really engaging at the same time… 

_Merlin_ , Neville doesn’t even know this man very well. They were only sort-of friends in Eighth Year. And Neville really, _really_ thought he was over his crush by now. 

Blaise looks at it for longer than he needs to, which makes Neville want to fidget, but he has both his hands holding the wreath, and so he just… keeps holding it.

“It’s a good start,” Blaise says, which what does that mean? Not that Neville expects him to know anything about plants– he’d partnered with Blaise in Herbology, Eighth Year, and Blaise didn’t know a _thing_ , but Blaise sounds friendly enough, which is something that Neville is reading too much into. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Neville feels so awkward. _So awkward_. “I… yeah. I make a lot of wreaths in December. Sometimes my little shrub in the back runs out of berries. Otherwise, I’d probably like to make more.” This is a very dull thing to say, but Blaise is looking around the shop like he doesn’t have any plans of leaving, so he feels as if he has to say _something_. 

Blaise looks at the berries on the counter, rolling their skinny, twiggy branches. “Can I watch?” Blaise puts his elbows on the counter and tips his head towards Neville as if this is a scandalous request. Which it isn’t. 

But the way Blaise is looking at him makes Neville almost think it is.

Blaise even reaches out and plucks the needle on Neville’s finger off and flicks it away with that bemused smile again, and Neville can feel his face flushing.

“I… sure.” Neville doesn’t know how to say _no_ without seeming rude or self-conscious, and self-consciousness seems like the kind of thing that Blaise wouldn’t have the patience for. 

But he also doesn’t know how to make a wreath with steady hands when Blaise is watching him, right across the counter from Neville. Blaise isn’t the kind of person who’s interested in these things– wreaths or plants, or… or Neville. The thought gives Neville a little pang in the heart, but he isn’t too upset about it. He’s a rather dull sort of person. He can’t help wondering why Blaise is talking to him, and hanging around shop– Blaise isn’t _interested_ in anything unless there’s something to be gained or it’s truly something he enjoys. Neville doubts Blaise enjoys watching Neville’s hands thread wire into the wreath and fasten on pinecones.

He brings another order to mind– a dozen roses in pink paper, and he rummages around for the thin pink tissue, laying it out.

“Why don’t you use magic?” Blaise’s voice is almost a murmur, a low sound, as if he’s reminding Neville how close they are. “To make the wreaths, I mean.”

Neville looks at him blankly. “Er– because I’m running a Muggle flower shop.”

Blaise shrugs, standing in the same movement, pushing back from the counter. “You could always do it in the back room. Can I come back there? Do you have a chair?”

“Come–” _What is happening?_ “Back here?” They _were_ friends in Eighth Year, but Blaise is acting as if Eighth Year was just yesterday. It has been two years and they haven’t even _talked_ since. “Sure.”

Blaise considers him. Neville feels like squirming under Blaise’s hot gaze, unsure what Blaise is looking for. Even though it’s the middle of December, Blaise is wearing a clean white T-shirt that’s much tighter than it’s meant to be, and Neville is out there in a fuzzy sweater and loose trousers. Blaise is wearing jeans, _tight jeans_ , which makes Neville feel even _more_ dull. 

“Move,” Blaise says.

“Pardon?” Neville blinks, tapping his fingers on the counter.

Blaise shrugs at him again, and moves a little to the right of Neville.

And vaults himself over the counter.

“ _Oh_.” Neville hopes he sounds surprised, rather than as breathless as he feels, and feels his face flush when Blaise, now much closer, leans his hip against the counter and tilts his head. “There’s– there’s a chair there.” He points. He’s glad he’s not shaking.

“I changed my mind,” Blaise says, his chest inches from Neville’s shoulder. It’s lose-lose: if Neville moves away, he risks being rude and hurtful, if he doesn’t, it looks like he’s perfectly comfortable with Blaise _right there_ , maybe even happy with it. Maybe even like he wants Blaise, which he does, but that’s beside the point. “I like watching from here.”

Bugger.

Neville somehow manages to fish out roses, even with Blaise _hmm_ -ing and watching so politely, so unobtrusively, it’s suspicious. 

“You’re good with your hands,” Blaise said, his voice so faux-casual, it seems like it might be mock-faux-casual– Godric, he’s so hard to figure out. Neville goes hot at the words, and tries not to show it.

He moves on to laying out the first six, stems crossed so the tops spread like a fan– when he wraps it up it’ll look better. “Who are you celebrating Christmas with?” What an ordinary question.

“Oh,” Blaise shrugs fluidly. “My mother, whoever she’s dating by next week, me, and whoever I’m dating by next week.”

Neville takes a breath and lets it out, carefully and quietly so Blaise can’t tell what the words do to him. “Whoever you’re dating next week,” he echoes. “Are you dating someone now?”

It seems like he’s meant to ask it, because of the way Blaise is leaning into him, and the tone of Blaise’s voice, and the way Blaise has worded the sentence, but when Neville says it, he feels painfully obvious.

Blaise looks so self-satisfied, Neville feels _easy_. “I am, but you never know what might happen in a week. I’ve got my eye on someone else.”

“Don’t let your boyfriend hear you say it,” Neville says. He tries not to feel too hurt. Blaise is a flirt, and Neville has always known it, but _wow_ , this afternoon feels so different already, knowing that everything that just happened, happened with Blaise having a boyfriend the whole time.

“Nah. Everyone who dates me knows not to expect anything but a good shag.” Blaise jumps back over the counter, his movements smooth, and his smile _still_ provocative, like he didn’t just say he has a boyfriend and he’s already thinking about someone else. “And trust me, they get a _brilliant_ shag.”

And then he’s out the door.

Neville watches him leave. He feels so boring. He turns back to the counter– the wreath, at least, looks a little more colourful.

_Briiing!_

It’s been two days and Neville still hasn’t gotten Blaise out of his mind by the time the first one arrives– a skinny pale guy with non-prescription glasses and a cut-up jean jacket. He dresses like he could debate you passionately with big words for hours and somehow not bore you. 

He asks for half a dozen roses wrapped in pink.

“For my boyfriend,” he dictates the note, “Blaise.”

It’s a miracle that Neville’s hands don’t mess up the note entirely with the way they falter, and he looks up, trying to come up with a reason why he looks so startled by the name– he knows this guy– Alex– hasn’t missed the way he fumbled. “How do you spell it?”

Alex spells Blaise, and Neville pens it out, tying the note on with rough, light brown twine. He tries not to think too hard about how there’s no way this is a coincidence, and he pulls the thin paper around the bouquet, and he tries not to look upset, and he hands over the roses.

“Receipt?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay.” He rings that up, rips it off carefully, and watches the guy leave with his long, skinny legs and his jean jacket and his roses for his boyfriend, Blaise.

_Briiing!_

Neville looks up: skin a light brown, thick, straight brown hair to his shoulders, T with no sleeves and a cigarette. Walks like he might be interested in setting the whole world on fire, hasn’t decided yet.

Wants six roses, wrapped in pink paper.

“You don’t seem like the roses kind of guy,” Neville says, hoping for he-doesn’t-know-what. The last guy came in four days ago, so maybe he’s hoping for confirmation that Blaise hasn’t gotten a new boyfriend since, and this order is a coincidence.

Sleeveless T snorts. “Bit sappy for my tastes, but my boyfriend likes them. You know how it is.” 

Neville does not. Neville has never attempted to woo anyone, or otherwise been in a relationship other than his quick thing with Luna, and his other quick thing with Hannah. 

“Note?” He ties the paper around it with a pink string when Sleeveless shakes his head, doubling over the string so it looks better and stays better. “Receipt?”

“Hell yeah.” The guy pays up as Neville pulls the paper at the dotted line. “He’s paying me back.”

Neville tries not to doubletake– he shouldn’t be judging anyone, but– “He’s paying you back? Who _is_ he?”

Sleeveless breathes out smoke and folds up the receipt lopsidedly, sticking it into the pocket of his jeans. “You won’t have heard of him– Zabini– his family likes to keep real secret.”

 _From Muggles,_ Neville thinks, _But wizards have heard of the Zabinis a dozen times over. Funny how you’re dating and he hasn’t told you._ He thinks this is either really unfair to Sleeveless, or a testament to how Blaise doesn’t even care because he doesn’t expect it to last, which is also unfair to Sleeveless.

He gives Sleeveless an extra rose. “That’s not for your secretive boyfriend,” he says, “that’s because I think you deserve it.” 

Possibly because he feels bad about himself and he’d like to do something nice to make up for it. Possibly because he wants to think he isn’t being resentful towards Blaise’s boyfriends. 

He puts things away carefully as the sleeveless guy gets into a fancy car– Neville would’ve expected a motorcycle, but what does he know, maybe Blaise paid for that car, too.

_Briiing!_

“Hi.” This one’s shorter, with muscles that are almost frightening in size, and his dreads are tied up behind his head in a messy sort of bun. “Are you Neville Longbottom?”

 _Oh,_ Neville thinks. _Oh hell no_. “Yes,” he says.

This guy grins, slipping his hands into the pockets of his shorts– possibly the only time Neville has ever seen anyone look good in shorts, because he’s never seen Blaise in shorts– and pulls out a wallet. “Could I get six roses wrapped in pink paper?”

 _For Blaise Zabini?_ Neville wants to ask with an ugly tone, but he holds it back– it isn’t Mr Fit’s fault that Blaise has apparently sent him to get _this specific order_ from _this specific person_. All Fit knows, Neville is sure, is that this place is Blaise’s favourite flowershop or something.

“Of course,” he manages to say. He puts the set together. “Note?”

“All right,” the guy shrugs, his pink T-shirt straining over his shoulders. “What do I write, though? We’ve been together for three days, I don’t know what business I got writing him a note with roses. Just write something like ‘Let’s shag.’”

 _Three days_. Neville tries to stop himself from doing the math, but it isn’t hard math, and before he can shut down that part of his brain, he thinks– it’s been a week and a half, so the other guy was dumped, what, a day after the roses? 

Maybe it’s time Neville starts to think about _why_ this is happening. To _him_. What the fuck, Blaise?

He writes out, _let’s shag_ , very unenthusiastically. How classy, he thinks, and then he feels mean for thinking like that. 

“I’ll ring you up,” he says, using yellow string. It clashes with the pink paper, but at this point, he doesn’t care. It’s about Blaise, and it’s about Neville, though he isn’t sure what _it_ is, and Blaise can go ahead and have clashing colours. Mr Fit is going to be out the door soon, too.

“Receipt?”

“Nah.” Mr Fit waves away Neville’s change, too. “Keep it.”

He’s nice, and Neville finds himself grateful that he’s obviously only in it for the shag– if he wasn’t, he’d feel sad for him. Instead, he feels sad for himself.

Also, he doesn’t want to think about what’s happening with Blaise. 

It’s almost Christmas, and he should think about what to do about his dwindling supply of these pretty red berries he likes to use.

Mr Fit gets on a bike and puts the roses in the front basket, peddling off. Of course he’s a biker. Neville shouldn’t feel so bitter– Blaise will be happy, then, since this guy is fit, handsome, and nice, three things Neville feels decidedly _not_ right now, and he pushes both men from his mind.

Completely. 

He’s definitely not thinking about Blaise at all.

_Briiing!_

Neville looks up. Deep brown skin, short hair, white button down that’s a little tight, and red skinny jeans this time, an easy smirk.

“Hello,” he says flatly. “It’s ready.” It’s a day before it needs to be ready, but he finished the wreath last night, focusing on the berries and how to use them strategically so he has enough for a few more wreaths rather than focusing on who he was putting together the wreath for.

“Bugger,” murmurs Blaise, leaning over the counter again, not sounding disappointed at all. Neville’s gut goes hot, but he clenches his fists in his pockets and manages to give Blaise a small, polite smile. “I was hoping to catch you making it.”

“Shame.” Neville looks around for a bag to put it in as Blaise pulls out a money bag that looks very full. “Your mother already paid.”

“Eh,” Blaise pulls out some Muggle money, which Neville tries not to blink at– after all, Blaise _is_ wearing Muggle clothes, and Blaise did always seem interested in Muggle men and Muggle fashion if not Muggle life itself. He liked the way Muggle clothes were more revealing. “Consider it a tip.”

“That’s… not a tip.” Neville loses his detached tone for a moment when he sees the amount Blaise has put on the counter. It’s double the price of the actual wreath, which is already more expensive than others one might find in department stores and other Muggle chains because this one is handmade. 

“Who says?” Blaise smiles at him. Neville wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth twinkled like the Muggle toothpaste commercials, he was so confident and in Neville’s face. 

And Neville is supposed to be upset. He _is_ upset. He doesn’t smile back, just looks down at the money. 

“Come on, brighten up. What’s got you down?” Blaise leans in engagingly, wordlessly urging Neville to spill out his heart. 

Neville figures he might as well shag Neville right up against the counter if he’s going to be like this– what’s Neville to do with Blaise leaning halfway over the counter and relentlessly gazing into Neville’s somehow, even when Neville looks away. He’s just– _there_ – whenever Neville looks up, with his lips close enough that Neville could kiss him over the counter right now. 

“If I’ve done something to upset you, I’m sure I could…” Blaise looks Neville over, his mouth turning up. “Make it up to you, somehow.” His tone makes no secret of what he means when he says _somehow._

“I can’t take that,” Neville leaves the money on the counter and holds out the wreath in the paper bag. “Unless you want to buy something that amounts to that much. Maybe I can give it to you in units of six roses wrapped in pink paper.”

Blaise’s lips part in surprise, his eyes widening, and his shoulders go stiff. “I…” he says, and then nothing else.

“Take the bag, Blaise.”

“Are you angry with me?” Blaise sounds small and pitiful now, which tugs at Neville’s heart, but _also_ Blaise knows exactly what he’s doing– he knows he’s already got Neville wrapped around his finger, and Neville is not going to fall for this. 

“I’d rather you not shag me to make it up to me.” Neville’s mind jumps to the note he wrote out for guy number three. A very concise _let’s shag_. It’s from Mr Fit, of course, but it’s in Neville’s handwriting, and it’s making him blush now.

“You– er– knew it was me?” Blaise isn’t leaning on the counter anymore– he’s standing in front of it like a normal person and he isn’t smiling like he knows Neville inside and out and finds it funny anymore. He kind of looks embarrassed. 

“The first one did ask for a note To, From.”

Blaise winces. “Oh, right.” He looks cowed for a minute and then he winces again– “First one? You mean you also figured out the… other one?”

Neville wants to sigh loudly, but he settles for setting down the bag because Blaise hasn’t taken it yet, and his arm is getting tired. He’d like Blaise to leave, and he’d like to stop feeling weirdly sorry for Blaise– Blaise is the one who sent three successive boyfriends to Neville’s shop within two weeks, and he has a right to be upset about it. “The other two?”

Blaise slumps. “Oh.”

He looks so… nevermind. Neville doesn’t feel sorry for him. He _doesn’t_ feel sorry for him. He doesn’t… “At least it wasn’t four guys.”

“Haha.” Blaise seems to have assessed the situation, because he stands up a little straighter and takes the bag of the counter– _yay_ , Neville thinks for a split second– and sets it on the floor. 

“So!” He puts his elbows on the counter again, propping up his chin. 

Neville wants to die. 

“How did you know the other two were from me? Do tell.” He’s smiling now, although it does look like he’s putting real effort into smiling, so that’s something, Neville supposes. 

How long will Blaise keep up with… whatever this is? When is he going to leave so Neville can bury his face in his hands, groan loudly, have a wank, and scold himself over it? He’d like to get it over with as soon as he can, because it never feels good. Except for the wank. Even the wank feels guilty, so, kind of, also the wank.

“Well, the second one said he was getting reimbursed for the bouquet, of all things, so I asked who would do that,” Neville tells him, making sure to keep his voice safely dull.

“Well. I like to financially support my boyfriends.” Neville tries not to think too hard about Blaise says _boyfriends_ like he’s got a whole formula and procedure for them, or whatever. 

“The third one ordered the same thing and his note was _let’s shag_ , so I figured it was you, after the first two.” 

“That sounds like you’re jumping to conclusions,” Blaise says tentatively, half-smiling. He _knows_ what his half smile does to people, he has to.

Neville pulls some paper and busies his hands, but he’s not thinking about it. He still can’t pull his mind from Blaise, who is still standing there expectantly. Neville pulls some paper.

“Also he asked if I was Neville Longbottom.” Neville looks up to catch Blaise’s eye as he says this, but what ends up catching his eye is where the sleeve of Blaise’s white shirt has slipped down his wrist a little, since he’s got his elbows on Neville’s counter. “And… it looks like you’re wearing a _bracelet_ of twine, pink string… yellow string…”

This is ridiculous. What is happening? _What is happening_?

What’s happening right now, anyway, is that Blaise is pulling back quick as a whip, yanking down his sleeve. “Or not jumping to conclusions.” He offers a sheepish smile. “So this isn’t going to come as much of a surprise, then, but I wanted to ask you–”

“I gave you the wreath. Have a good day.” Whatever it is that he’s about to say, Neville really doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t know what’s happening, except Blaise is never _not_ in control of what’s happening, and whatever it is will be a very pleasing thing for Blaise and not so much for Neville, who definitely cares more than he should, and _definitely_ more than Blaise does. Whatever game Blaise is playing, he wants no part in it. 

“Neville.” Blaise rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t pick the bag up and leave. No, not in the least. 

Instead he backs up a little and vaults himself over the counter again. If Neville was managing to not go weak in the knees at Blaise saying his name– which he isn't sure he had been managing to do– he has gone weak in the knees from Blaise’s graceful movements. He’s so sure and decisive. And Neville has no idea what he has decided, but it can’t be good.

Blaise bites his lip, resting his hip on the side of the counter again, even though he isn’t looking at Neville wantingly the way he had been the last time. He looks for all the world like leaning sexily against wooden flowershop counters comes naturally to him.

“Can we pretend those roses didn’t happen?”

Neville is so ready to pretend that _Blaise Zabini_ didn’t happen, but if he really wasn’t supposed to know about the roses, then what were they even for? 

He asks Blaise this.

Blaise doesn’t look like he wants to answer. “Well,” he says, and fiddles with the braided bracelet on his wrist, which _really_ doesn’t help his case. “I just like your shop. When I came, you were putting together a bouquet of roses, and you have nice roses, so I…”

“Sent your boyfriends to get some for you.” Neville finished. “You could’ve come yourself.” He grabs a couple roses, trying to look away from Blaise. He pulls a length of string.

“That would’ve– er– been pretty obvious, though.” Blaise smiles sheepishly. “Listen, I wanted to ask you if you’d like to– to spend Christmas Eve with me? Just the afternoon. We celebrate on the day before– it’s just one of my mother’s eccentricities.” 

Neville isn’t following, and his heart hurts, because it looks for all the world like Blaise _fancies–_

He’s not going there. _He’s not going there_. He closes his eyes for a moment, but it doesn’t help the way his head is spinning, trying to figure out all of this. “I’ll go for an hour or two if you tell me the truth about what you’re up to with the roses and what you want from me.” This seems like a pretty steep deal, but he might as well ask for it, he figures.

To his surprise, Blaise answers immediately, as if he’s somehow afraid the deal has a time limit. “The roses reminded me of you, and they’re from you, kind of. Do you remember you had six roses on pink paper when I was here?”

Neville does, vaguely. He doesn’t see how this matters. Blaise looks like he’s about to say more, but honestly, Neville doesn’t think he can _handle_ much more. He holds his hand up– it’s sappy and he’s got another pine needle, this time on his ring finger, so he feels sort of stupid doing it, but it works in shutting Blaise up.

“Can I stop you?” Since Blaise has already stopped, he feels himself flush asking it. He feels boring and dull again. What a cute little thing for Blaise to have fun with for approximately two hours! “I don’t want whatever it is that you want with me. I’d rather you just leave.”

Blaise slumps, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Okay,” he says, sounding unhappy. “Sorry about the roses. You really weren’t supposed to know.” 

He jumps back over the counter, much less energetically this time, and Neville’s chest aches. He looks _so_ unhappy. Does he really value all of his boy toys this much? 

When Blaise turns around, bag in hand (yay!) his eyes brighten again. (Oh no.) “Can we keep in touch?”

“Um.” Neville isn’t sure what to do with that. Blaise wants to keep in touch with him? _Why?_ “I’d love to, but there isn’t much that happens around here. It’s just a Muggle flowershop.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be nice to hear from you.” Blaise isn’t smiling anymore, but he looks like he’s trying to. “You also don’t have to come to the Christmas thing, since I didn’t answer– er– the second bit.”

“You could answer it now,” Neville says, because he’s masochistic, it seems, and also because now that he’s established he doesn’t want a tumble with Blaise, it will hurt less, probably. Right? Also, he _is_ curious to know. Although it’s bound to hurt. Actually, maybe he’s not curious to know. “Or not.”

The corner of Blaise’s mouth tips up, almost smiling again. It’s stupid how happy that makes Neville. “Make up your mind,” he murmurs teasingly. 

When did Neville become the one leaning over the counter? They’re so close, and Blaise is just standing there like a normal person. 

“I…” 

Blaise is leaning in too, now, so stupidly close. Neville shouldn’t kiss him. Neville _should not_ kiss him. Even if Blaise wants to kiss him back, because that’s only going to last for a couple of days. Because it would be stupid, quite frankly, to think that this means anything to Blaise, or that this isn’t going to end up hurting so much as soon as it’s over. So Neville should _absolutely_ _not kiss Blaise_.

Neville kisses Blaise.

Blaise, surprisingly enough, _kisses back._ Blaise kisses back like he’s trying to put his whole heart into it, which is– _wow_ – unsurprisingly magical. Blaise’s lips are soft, sweet, his kiss open-mouthed and feverishly warm. It feels like Neville’s whole body might melt as Blaise’s eyelashes brush his cheeks and there’s the soft sound of paper as Blaise drops the bag, sliding both of his hands up in Neville’s hair, and then pulling him closer. He seems to have forgotten there’s a counter between them. Blaise’s hands are warm and Neville feels tingly all over.

And if he thought he could survive this, Neville was dead wrong. 

He pushes away gently. Blaise’s deep brown eyes are so close, Neville can see every shade of them, his breath so close Neville can feel it on his own lips, shaky and quick. 

Blaise’s hands slip from his hair to rest on the counter. He’s watching Neville with wide eyes.

Neville doesn’t have any words. He’s not sure there are any for this specific situation. How do you say _I fancy you so much I can’t even bear it when you flirt with me because it’s too painful to know that you only want me for a fun time_ and _please get out of my life before I fall in love with you_?

He tries to say it. What comes out instead is a breathless, “Bye.”

Something like shock passes over Blaise’s face, followed by something like hurt. “You kissed me,” he says quietly. “That was… really mean.” He bites his lip hard and takes the bag from where it lies on the ground.

 _That was… really mean._

Neville blinks, and Blaise is already out the door. _That was really mean._ All he did was kiss Blaise and say bye.

Something nags at the back of Neville’s mind as he runs through their conversation today. Something… he may have missed, if Blaise really was _that_ cut up over this afternoon– he looks down at his hands, where he’s got– oh bugger, why hadn’t he paid a little bit of attention to what his hands were doing– half a dozen roses in pink paper. 

Neville vaults himself over the counter. It isn’t as hard as he thought it would be.

“Blaise–” he calls, running out the door, “Blaise!” It turns out he doesn’t really need to be calling anything, because Blaise is standing right outside the door, staring up at the bold-lettered storefront with both his hands on the strap of the bag, looking kind of sad.

Okay, very sad.

“Hi,” Neville says, “What did you want with me again?”

Blaise stares at him, and then at the half a dozen roses in his hand, and his fingers tighten around the paper bag with the wreath in it. There’s snow in his hair, and he looks like a daydream, albeit a sad one. He bites his lip. “You first,” he says.

Neville’s heart stutters in his chest at the plea in his eyes. 

“I fancy you,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to be another of your two-day boyfriends. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Um,” Blaise says in a high voice. He looks as if he might faint. “You what?”

Neville’s heart races, his gut going cold with every second Blaise doesn’t say anything one way or the other. “I– um.” He can’t say it again; his throat closes over the words. “Your turn?”

Blaise blinks several times. “What I wanted with you?” He smiles sheepishly again. “I did want you to be one of my two-day boyfriends.”

Oh.

Okay. 

Well, then–

“But only because I didn’t think I’d be able to keep you around for longer than that.” Blaise fiddles with his bracelet again before catching Neville watching him. He stops and shoves his hand in the pocket of his jeans– they don’t look like pockets meant to be used, seeing as they’re so tight Neville can see the outline of his hand clearly, and if Blaise turns around– anyway. Blaise looks surprisingly earnest. “I’m not very interesting, you’ll find.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Neville says quietly. He’s melting inside, even standing here in the snow, thinking back over the past couple weeks, and especially the past hour. “I’m interested.”

Blaise gets a soft, flustered sort of expression, and Neville finds this so very endearing he has to look away. “I’m sexy and pretty much nothing else.”

“You’re also pretty stupid if you think that’s true,” Neville murmurs, stepping in closer, relishing the way Blaise’s eyes widen and his breath quickens. He’s close enough to hear Blaise’s nervous swallow. “You’re really quite sweet.” 

He remembers Blaise’s _the roses reminded me of you_. He likes the way Blaise’s eyes close before Neville even kisses him, his soot black lashes making dark crescents against his cheeks. 

When he kisses Blaise this time, it’s a lot slower. It’s a lot less confusing, and he gets to enjoy the feel of Blaise’s lips against his own, moving slowly, opening in an invitation and coaxing Neville’s tongue out. 

He gets to appreciate how incredibly _good_ at kissing Blaise is, with Blaise’s hand in his hair and his lips moving _just_ so, and his body pressing against Neville’s, no counter between them this time, until the twigs poking out of the bag in Blaise’s other hand are digging into Neville’s side. He feels like the world is dissolving, or maybe _he_ is, he can’t be quite sure of anything except that there’s a rush in his chest that he has never felt before, and his free hand is running over Blaise’s body without a thought, and Blaise is making soft sounds against his mouth, and they…

Are still in the middle of the street. 

Neville breaks away, his whole body a shivering with the way Blaise’s fingers ghost over the back of his neck.

“Here.” He holds out the semi-squashed bouquet of six roses, wrapped in pink paper. “These are for you, I guess.”

He fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out a stubby little pencil, looking at the blank note card for a moment. _I’ve fancied you for a whole lot more than two days,_ he writes.

Blaise’s face does the flustered thing again, this tiny little smile, and Neville’s heart skips in his chest.

“I guess it doesn’t really mean much, since you’ve got _let’s shag_ in my handwriting, but, you know.” He kisses Blaise’s forehead, because Blaise still hasn’t looked up from the note.

Blaise reaches out to take his hand. “No,” he says, “this one’s better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
